


Dark and Stormy

by grapehyasynth



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: AU, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-11
Updated: 2016-06-11
Packaged: 2018-07-14 10:02:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7166630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grapehyasynth/pseuds/grapehyasynth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jemma has always admired Dr. Leopold Fitz's work from afar, but when she gets stuck in a rainstorm after a conference and he brings her back to his house to wait it out, she may suddenly get to know the elusive Dr. Fitz quite well...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dark and Stormy

“You’re sure you have to go back tonight?” Laurel asked again, worrying the hem of her sweater as Jemma searched in her purse for her keys. “The storm’s only getting worse.” 

“Seriously,” Fatima agreed, “you can stay with one of us at the hotel, it’s not a problem. Planes might not even be flying in this weather.” 

“You’ll think I’m ridiculous,” Jemma cringed, turning to look at the crowd of scientists who’d gathered to watch the pouring rain outside. “But I have a date I’m not keen to miss.” 

There were scattered catcalls and a few people laughed. 

“Must be some bloke,” Kenneth chuckled. “Didn’t want to come see you present your research?” 

“Believe it or not, he’s not the sciency type,” Jemma admitted, crinkling her nose. 

“How do you have _any_ conversations with him?” Fatima laughed. 

It had been a long three-day conference and the rest of the group dissipated with talk of drinking games in Kenneth’s room. Though the other scientists were from all over the world, they’d all been at the top of their respective fields since before they started university and had been traveling the conference circuit for nearly a decade. There was a distinct camaraderie among them, despite seeing each other a few weeks out of the year, and several lingered to hug Jemma goodbye and make plans to Skype in the coming week. 

She had just tugged the hood of her raincoat over her hair and put her hand on the door, steeling herself to plunge into the downpour, when a voice called, “Dr. Simmons!” 

Leopold Fitz, the quiet Scottish engineer for whom -- as Fatima put it -- Jemma sported an “intellectual lady boner” jogged towards her, his tie flapping a bit. Privately Jemma thought it might be more than just an intellectual interest, but she’d certainly never tell Fatima that. And though they’d shared several lovely conversations at past conferences, Fitz never spent much time with the others, so she couldn’t really be sure he wasn’t an axe murderer. 

“Dr. Simmons,” he said again, halting before her, panting ever so slightly. He glanced above her head to assess the rain and she noticed simultaneously how very blue his eyes were and how his long, dark lashes brushed his cheeks when he blinked. “I heard you’re thinking about going out into the storm --” 

“Have you come to advise me against it as well, Dr. Fitz? Because I can assure you the others already gave me an earful--” 

“No,” he interrupted her, brow furrowed. “I just thought you might want an umbrella.” 

She looked at the handle he offered her, feeling like a right idiot. “Oh, thank you, that’s--”

 “It doubles as a life raft, if you need it,” he explained as she took the umbrella. “Designed it myself.” 

“Did you really?” she exclaimed with great interest. 

“No,” he chuckled, looking rather pleased with himself. “I bought it at Ikea. Wouldn’t advise on trying to use it as an aquatic mode of transportation.” 

“Right.” Jemma pushed the door open so that she could unfurl the umbrella. “Thank you so much, Dr. Fitz, that was very thoughtful.” 

“You’ll be careful?” he added quickly, glancing nervously at the storm. “Wouldn’t want to lose one of our brightest minds to a bit of water.”

“I’ll be fine. I’ll see you at the Expo in Tokyo?” 

“Can’t make that one, but I’ll be in Bangkok the week after.” 

“I’ll see you then, then!” She gave him a last quick smile, cheeks burning slightly from the length and friendliness of their conversation, and darted into the rain. 

Jemma had done her driving exam in a downpour years before and thus always talked up her ability to navigate a storm, but even she would have admitted -- though only under intense interrogation -- that this was a bit much. Hers was the only car on the road and she drove as slowly as her flight’s departure time would allow, leaning all the way forward to try to see the road through the sheets of water cascading down her windshield. She nearly skidded off the road when a sharp turn surprised her and had to sit for a moment to catch her breath before she started driving again. 

She’d nearly reached the exit for the airport when she found herself wheels-deep in floodwaters that had crept over a low portion of the road. She drummed her fingertips on the steering wheel, debating whether to reverse and seek another route or forge ahead and hope for the best. 

“Not far now,” she muttered, deciding on the latter, and put her foot on the gas. 

The wheels turned, churning up a bit of water, but the car didn’t move. 

“Back it is.” 

She put the car in reverse and tried again -- the same thing happened. 

“No no no no _no!_ Why are you making nonsense?” she cried, banging the steering wheel and accidentally setting off the horn. 

She took a steadying breath, wracking her brain for any memory of instruction on what to do in a situation like this. But she already knew that if she’d ever learned it, she would have known it immediately, so obviously it was a failing of the drivers’ ed program for whom she would have _strong words_ when she made it home. 

_If_ she made it home? 

Before she could go down that train of thought, she tried opening her door, thinking she could at least wade out -- she’d have to abandon the rental but if she sprinted she might make it to her gate on time. 

Water rushed into the car the moment she got the door open. 

“Shit!” she yelped, closing it again with great difficulty. Clearly the water level was rising faster than she’d realized. Her headlights were definitely submerged now. Could a car like this float away? She wasn’t certain on the physics. 

Jemma tucked her feet up onto the seat to keep them from getting any more wet. Her hands were shaking so badly as she scrambled for her purse and dug for her phone that she dropped it twice before she could turn it on. She dialed 999 first, then realized that might not be the emergency code for Canada and she’d not thought to memorize global emergency codes. 

“Okay,” she muttered, forcing herself to remain as calm as was possible given the situation. “Okay. You can do this, Jemma Simmons, PhD, PhD.” Sometimes that reminder helped. 

She dug deeper into her purse and with a triumphant cry pulled out the sheet of other presenters’ contact information which she’d saved for extensive follow-up post-conference. She dialed the first number she saw. 

He answered after just two rings. 

“Dr. Fitz!” she cried in relief. “Oh, thank god. I'm terribly sorry to impose, but I’m a bit stuck and I could use a hand. It’s Jemma Simmons by the way, I don’t know if that was clear -- oh good. Yes, uh, if you could, that would be quite wonderful. I’m on the highway just before exit 38. Yes, I’ll wait here for you. Thank you so much, Dr. Fitz. See you soon.” 

She threw the phone onto the passenger seat and groaned, hitting her head against the steering wheel. Of _course_ he’d been the first number she’d seen. This was just priceless. After this she might have to abandon conferences and conventions altogether. Her career would certainly take a hit, but at least she wouldn’t die of the embarrassment of seeing Dr. Fitz every few weeks. 

He must have driven dangerously quickly, because he arrived within ten minutes. As soon as she saw his headlights she grabbed her purse and phone and stuffed them into her backpack, which she put on after releasing her seatbelt. 

“You can do this,” she said firmly. “This is fine. This is fine.” 

She rolled down the window until she felt she could fit through, then twisted around and hauled herself head-first through the gap. Standing awkwardly on the dashboard, she was able to push herself up onto the roof of the car. 

Fitz had parked at the edge of the water, some thirty yards back down the road, his headlights shining across the surface to where she was. He stood watching her with his hands on his hips, his dress shirt plastered to his skin by the pouring rain. 

“Hello!” Jemma shouted, waving. 

“You weren’t exaggerating about having gotten yourself stuck, Dr. Simmons!” he yelled back. 

“In fact I think I might have undersold the situation a bit!” 

He shook his head and they both laughed at the ridiculousness of the moment. 

“There’s nothing for it. You’ll have to swim, I’m afraid!” he called. 

“But my computer, my notes -- they’ll get soaked!” 

“Leave them!” 

“I can’t!” 

“You’ll drown if you don’t swim!” he shouted. “The current’s already picking up, you’re lucky you haven’t been swept away already!” 

Jemma stepped to the back of the roof of the car, regarding the charging, muddied water warily. “Perhaps I’d best wait for a rescue helicopter or--” 

“If you’re scared--” 

“I’m not!” she protested. Wrinkling her nose, she sat down on the edge of the car, shivering as her legs slipped into the water. It wasn’t cold, exactly, more tepid, but the contrast to the air was sharp. She took a last deep breath and pushed off. 

Dr. Fitz had been right: a current had developed which made swimming nearly impossible. It would have been challenging enough, but with her laden backpack, Jemma made slow progress and even dipped under the surface a few times, reemerging with spluttering gasps for air. (It wasn’t _her_ fault she spent so much time in labs that she hadn’t exercised lately!) 

Fitz waded out as far as he could, up to his chest, and grabbed hold of her wrists the instant she came within reach. He pulled her up to standing and half-pushed, half-carried her to the water’s edge. 

“I’m glad you didn’t need saving, as I can’t actually swim,” he informed her as she shook herself and shivered. 

“ _What_?” she exclaimed. “Some help you’d’ve been if I’d been drowning.” 

“Well, I can _swim_ , but I nearly drowned once myself and I’d rather not undergo a repeat experience. Don’t know if I could put my head underwater without a panic attack.” 

“Oh.” Jemma wrapped her arms around her, staring at him as his windshield wipers thumped behind them. “That was rather gallant of you to come out as far as you did, then.” 

“Had to at least look like I made an effort,” he joked, ducking his head. “Come on, let’s get out of this mess.” 

The inside of the car, which he’d left running, was blessedly warm, and Jemma sank into the seat with a soft moan. Fitz cranked up the heat and reached around behind Jemma for his suit jacket, which he draped over her carefully. 

“I’d take you back to the conference center but they’ve closed off that bridge -- it’s flooded there as well. I just came from my house, if you don’t mind me taking you there?” 

“No, that’s -- that’d be quite logical,” Jemma decided to say. The elusive Dr. Fitz was taking her to his actual _house_ \-- the place where he lived and worked when he wasn’t bouncing from country to country to demonstrate yet again why he was consistently ranked one of the most brilliant people on the planet. This evening had certainly taken several unexpected turns. 

They rode in silence, Jemma warming her hands on the gusts of air blowing out of the dashboard. The rain hadn’t slowed one bit, and the car inched along as Fitz squinted at the road. Jemma thought for sure they must have gotten lost, but just then Fitz brought the car to a stop and switched it off. 

“Is this it?” Jemma asked bluntly, leaning forward to try to see, well, anything through the rain.

 “I left most of the lights off so you can’t see where it is. I promise it’s a house and not the dark woods where I’ll bury your body.” 

Jemma turned to him slowly, eyes wide. 

“That was--” Fitz coughed, cheeks quite red. “I was trying to make a joke. I thought it was obvious.” 

“Does anyone know I’m here?” Jemma squeaked. 

“I texted Fatima,” Fitz reassured her quickly. “You’re welcome to call her as well if you’d like--” 

“That’s alright,” Jemma said, though she thought she might do so anyway once she had a moment alone. Just to be sure. 

Fitz sat awkwardly for a moment, then swung his keys around his finger. “Come on, then.” 

Jemma pulled his jacket around so she could tug it onto her arms properly, then shouldered her backpack and followed him up what was likely a front walk when it wasn’t completely obscured by an opaque screen of rain. 

Fitz swung the front door open and stepped aside for her to go in. She waited in the front hall as he flicked a few lights on. 

Jemma’s jaw dropped slightly. She knew that she and her colleagues did _well_ with their work, but Fitz’s house was _incredible_. Dark wood beams in the ceiling, thick plush carpets, stained glass lamps, a wide staircase winding up to a second floor-- 

“If you think there’s any hope for your papers, you might want to lay them out to dry,” Fitz interrupted her thoughts, gesturing to her backpack. “I can take care of that while you shower, if you’d like?” 

“Oh -- thank you.” She handed him the bag distractedly, gazing unabashedly around. Surely there must be a story to this. 

“I can give you something to wear while we wash your clothes,” he continued.

 Jemma flushed at that, thinking about what garments he might have to handle if he were to throw the clothes in her backpack into a washing machine. “I can do that, that’s not a problem--” 

“You’re clearly freezing, Dr. Simmons,” he said firmly, and indeed she’d just shivered. “I can handle the wash.” 

“Jemma,” she corrected him. “Please, call me Jemma.” 

“As long as you promise to drop the _Doctor_ in front of my name. Just Fitz.” 

They shook hands as if just meeting and Fitz smiled bashfully. 

“Shower’s this way then,” he said quickly, depositing the backpack by the sitting room entrance and leading her up the stairs. “Take as long as you like, use anything that’s in there -- there are towels in the closet behind the door. I’ll leave some clothes on a chair right outside the door...Uh, that’s all I can think of, do you need anything else?”

“Don’t suppose you have a brush?” Jemma crinkled her nose at him. 

He patted his curls, which were starting to bounce back up as they dried. “Never owned one. I can try to make a comb before you’re out of the shower?” 

She would bet that he _would_ be able to make one, and it would probably work better than most commercially-available options. “That’s alright, but thank you. I’ll figure something out.” 

He nodded and practically scurried away as if she were going to start peeling off her clothes before he could leave. She shook her head, smiling, and closed the bathroom door. 

Leaving her wet clothes on the floor, she looked around at the bathroom, which had all the subtle luxury of the rooms on the first floor, with what looked like actual marble countertops and a deep ceramic bowl for a sink. She was tempted to try out the expansive bathtub but felt odd enough being naked in Leopold Fitz’s shower, let alone stretching out with her bare bum on the bottom of his tub. Shaking her head, she got in. 

The shower was a blessed relief, and she stayed in longer than she’d normally have allowed herself. She did begin to warm up, though it was one of those chills that hung in the bones long after it had left the skin. And as she stood under the water and her adrenaline drained away, the aches from the swim began to manifest themselves. She desperately needed a massage, and she was definitely _not_ asking her _colleague_ downstairs for one. 

When she stepped out of the bathroom in just a towel, releasing the pent-up steam into the adjoining bedroom -- Fitz’s bedroom, she realized for the first time and felt her nakedness distinctly -- she found the promised pile of clothes waiting for her. Fitz’s clothes obviously didn’t fit her perfectly, but they were not dissimilar in size. The white undershirt stretched tight across her chest in a way that was sure to make both of them blush, especially as her bras were currently in the wash, but fortunately he’d also provided a thick grey sweater that when buttoned would give her a modicum of decency. She pulled on the pair of boxers gingerly, determinedly _not_ thinking about where they’d been before but finding them to be incredibly cozy. She completed the outfit with a pair of flannel pajama pants and striped socks. She wriggled her toes as she looked down at herself -- all in all, a bit of a patchwork but not too bad. 

She carded her fingers through her wet hair as she descended the stairs, feeling significantly more relaxed, slightly anxious with anticipation -- of what, she wasn’t sure -- and frankly quite ready to get to know the mysterious Dr. Leopold Fitz. 

“Something smells amazing,” she called in awe, following the sounds of clinking pots to a spacious, decked-out kitchen. Fitz stood with his head bent over the stove. He’d changed into dry clothes as well and had his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. 

“Just making us some din--” Fitz glanced up. “Ah!” 

“What?” Jemma held her hands out to either side, afraid to move. “Have I got something on me?” 

“No, I just...” He blushed again -- apparently he did that a lot -- and looked back at whatever he was stirring. “You look a bit different in all that than I do.” 

Jemma smiled slightly to herself. So he wasn’t totally immune to her womanhood. _Just wait til he sees the way my bum looks in his pajama bottoms... though his own bum seems able to hold its own._

She slipped around the far side of the island from him so she couldn’t stare at the offending body part and leaned her forearms across the granite. “I’d offer to help but I’m told I’m a bit of a maniac in the kitchen, so you might not want me to step in.” 

He shot her a crooked grin. “That’s alright, it’s almost done. Would you like some brandy?” He gestured to a glass next to the stove. “I find it warms the insides nicely after a casual paddle through the floodwaters.” 

“Brandy, aged wood, designer shampoos? I didn’t realize you were quite so old guard, Dr. Fitz.” 

He barked a laugh as he poured her drink. “Come on, Jemma, no need to be coy about the question. I know you come from money and you know I don’t.” 

Jemma leaned back away from him, frowning. “I’d like to think I don’t _exude_ upper-class values--” 

“I’m sorry,” Fitz interrupted her quickly, handing her the glass. “I didn’t mean that as an insult. I just thought it was apparent that I’m new to all this.” He paused as he turned away from her, his nose twitching. “You smell like me. That’s quite odd.” 

“It’s the shampoo,” Jemma explained, pulling on her hair. “Do you not like how you smell?” 

“It’s not that, it’s just... strange to smell it on someone else. On you.” 

Jemma sipped her brandy to avoid having to find a reasonable answer. Fitz seemed not to notice and went back to stirring. It was fascinating, truly, that he could be cripplingly self-conscious one moment and then make off-hand comments about how she smelled or her parents’ wealth the next, without any apparent self-awareness. 

“So there must be a story to this house, seeing as you’re so opposed to being dirty rich.” 

Fitz looked up, mouth open in protest, but then he saw her teasing smirk and changed direction, adopting a snippy, crisp, and annoyingly perfect Sheffield accent. “I hardly think it’s _proper_ that I discuss my salary with a house guest--” 

“Shut up, we both know I earn more than you,” she scoffed, unsure whether she was emboldened by the brandy or Fitz’s open, relaxed expression. 

“I turned down that position with Stark, I’ll have you know,” he said smugly. “If I’d’ve taken it, you wouldn’t even have a job.” 

“Well, that’s preposterous, seeing as I’m the most sought-after biochemist in the world.” 

“I keep telling Coulson that!” he exclaimed, waving the wooden spoon so that a little dollop of tomato sauce flew across the room and hit the refrigerator. “I told him to hire you, but he’s been a bit busy, you see.” 

“You’ve been recommending me to people?” Jemma asked, truly touched, moving forward again to lean on the counter so she could watch him work. _Not_ so she could have a better look at the dexterity of his hands on the pepper grinder. 

“You’ve not been modest a day in your life, Jemma Simmons, don’t start now.” When he saw her raised eyebrows, he shrugged. “You have a reputation. Brilliant, friendly, but arrogant as hell.” 

“I’ll take it,” she grinned, quite pleased with herself. 

Fitz chuckled. “Want to strain this pasta for me?” 

“On it.” Jemma accepted the colander he handed her and added over her shoulder as she dumped the pot of spaghetti into it, “So about this house...” 

Fitz groaned and let his head roll back. “You’re insufferable.” 

“So they say, apparently.” 

“You really want to know?” 

“ _Obviously_ , or I’d not have bothered asking--” 

He took the drained pasta back from her and tossed it with the bolognese sauce he’d been preparing. “I bought this house for my mum before I started uni, hoping she’d move to be a bit closer to me. But then she didn’t want to leave Scotland, which she didn’t tell me until she’d somehow finagled an arrangement that makes me not only the manager of the property but also the only person who can lease it from her. Apparently she was tired of me not using my money on myself.” 

“Smart woman,” Jemma observed. 

“Smarter than me by half,” Fitz agreed. 

“But wait a moment,” Jemma said slowly. “You said you bought this house _before uni_ \-- How could you possibly have had enough money? From what I know of your career, your products emerged on the global market about seven years ago.” 

“I, uh--” Fitz set down the plates he’d just filled and rubbed the back of his neck, squinting one eye. “You can’t tell anyone, alright?” Once Jemma had nodded eagerly, he continued, “You’ve heard of Mouse Hole technology?” 

“Of _course_ , it’s got over a hundred applications in the public, private, and military sectors--” 

“I invented it.” 

Jemma’s jaw dropped. “You what?” 

“Only my initials are on the patent, which I still think is too obvious, but... Yep. That was mine.” 

“How old were you?” 

“Fifteen.” Fitz looked away somewhat bashfully. 

“You--” Jemma laughed and followed him with her eyes as he took a tray of garlic bread out of the oven. “That’s _insane_ , Fitz.” 

“You created a mass-marketable, readily-affordable AIDS vaccine when you were fourteen!” he protested. “I was just keeping up.” 

She smiled, pleased he knew that, but she wasn’t finished yet. “So you invent the Mouse Hole and become ridiculously wealthy and use the money to buy your mum a house--” 

“It was barely two percent of the money, actually.” 

“So when you developed that delivery mechanism for water purification -- you didn’t need the money, you were just doing that ... because you could?” 

“Yeah, I suppose so.” 

“And the engine powered by a synthetic petroleum alternative?” 

“Yes, that as well.” 

“And the robotic eyes which not only allow for restored sight but actively repair damaged tissue?” 

“Yes, but--” 

“That’s--” Jemma accepted a plate from him without noticing that he’d topped her pasta with parmesan and added some salad on the side. “You could have retired at fifteen.” 

“I didn’t want to.” Fitz shrugged. “And I didn’t want anyone to know about the Mouse Hole or they’d start recruiting me to design all sorts of weapons for them, and that’s not my true passion, not really.” He gathered up two sets of cutlery and gestured towards the living room. “Would you like to eat in front of the fireplace?” 

“I must admit,” Jemma told him as they walked side by side down the hallway, “I’m feeling radically inadequate.” 

“Don’t,” Fitz snorted. “At least you can talk to human beings.” He pushed his couch with his hip so that it sat just in front of the crackling fire. 

“Am I not a human being?” Jemma demanded, sitting cross-legged on the couch so she could face him. 

“That’s not what I -- you know what I -- ugh.” Fitz’s chin dropped onto his chest. “There you go, now you’ve got me spluttering. I just _meant_ that you’re, you know, socially competent, whereas I’m-” 

“You’ve been a perfectly pleasant conversation partner thus far.” 

“Because I’ve been talking about myself and boring you half to death, just like my mum always chided me for doing.” He shook his head and started twirling some spagbol onto a spoon. “It’s your fault for winding me up like that.” 

“I did nothing of the sort!” Jemma laughed. “And besides, I thought it was all very interesting. You can tell your mum I said so.” 

“Yeah, I’ll do that,” he muttered, grinning down at his plate. 

Jemma tucked her hair behind her ear, unable to contain her own small smile. This was going _much_ better than she’d anticipated. 

Once they’d both eaten their fill -- Fitz went back for seconds, then thirds -- they set their dishes aside and Fitz gathered up Jemma’s papers, which had been scattered at a safe distance from the fire, drying out. 

“I don’t know how much there is to salvage but if you’d like I hand, we could go over them and start to transcribe?” 

“Promise not to steal my ideas?”

 “Chemistry was never my forte, I’m sure I won’t understand a bit.” 

“Liar,” she scoffed, sliding down to sit on the floor with the couch behind her. 

“That’s fair.” 

He settled next to her and divided up the pile of papers. They each took a new notebook -- Fitz had dozens upon dozens scattered around his house, a manifestation of the constant and abrupt fount of creativity that was his brain -- and set to copying the faded, smudged notes as best they could. 

“Does this say ‘ethyl’ or ‘ethanol’?” Fitz asked, leaning slightly into Jemma’s space so he could show her the page. 

“Erm--” She took the paper from him, tilting it to better illuminate it with the fire’s light. “That one’s ethanol. This bit down here says ethyl.” 

“Got it,” he muttered, bending forward to note the difference. 

Over the course of an hour like that, reaching over to correct or question or -- in Fitz’s case -- gush in enthusiasm, they inched towards each other until their knees and shoulders pressed together. They stopped apologizing when their hands brushed and instead found some sort of rhythm, passing papers over or under, setting completed ones to the side until they’d cleared the carpet in front of them in remarkably quick time. 

“You know what?” Fitz mused, stretching his legs out ahead of him. 

“What’s that?” Jemma asked around a yawn. 

“I’ve never had a partner before.” 

“Really?” She turned to look at the fire, mesmerized by the slowly diminishing flames. “I wouldn’t have known. You did quite well, Dr. Fitz.” She reached over sleepily to pat his leg. 

He said something else, something about a lab technician whose eyebrows he’d once only-sort-of-accidentally burnt off, but she was watching a dancing ember and her eyelids slipped lower and lower...

  
  
  
  


“Jemma.” 

She nestled her head against the shoulder supporting her, chasing its warmth. 

“Jemma.” 

Slowly, she became aware of someone gently running their knuckles up and down her arm and murmuring her name just inches from her ear. She sat up with a jerk, nearly knocking Fitz’s chin as he hurriedly got out of the way. 

“Sorry!” she blurted out, rubbing her hands over her face. “Ah -- I’m sorry about that, Fitz, I’ve probably gone and drooled on your shirt--” 

“It’s okay, I just didn’t want you to end up having to sleep like that all night.” 

“Right.” Jemma wanted to help with the dishes or something but every cell in her body was begging for more sleep. She pushed herself up onto the couch again. “I’ll just sprawl out here and be out like a light, not to worry--” 

“No you don’t!” Fitz grabbed her by the elbows and lifted her to a standing position. “My mother would fly here directly from Glasgow if she heard I’d let you sleep on the couch. Unfortunately I’ve not got a guest room--” 

“I can’t take your bed!” Jemma protested weakly, but he was steering her towards the stairs. “Where will you sleep? Unless you were planning to join m--” 

“I’ll take the couch,” Fitz said quickly. “Hang on--” He grabbed her hand as she mounted the stairs, holding her back so he could grab a laundry basket at the base of the staircase. “You might want these.” 

He had to physically guide her down the upstairs hallway with a hand on her lower back as she nearly kept walking into walls in the fog of her exhaustion. 

“Just give me a minute to change the sheets--” 

“It’s okay,” she mumbled blearily, staying his hands. “You don’t have to. I’ll just--” She made a tree-falling gesture and squelching noise. “Flop down.” 

“Right.” He was laughing at her and she wrinkled her nose indignantly but the words didn’t come. “Let me know if you need anything. I’ll just be downstairs on the couch.” 

He shut the door behind him. With her last scrap of consciousness, Jemma changed into a pair of her own knickers from the laundry basket -- naked for the second time that day in Fitz’s bedroom -- and did, quite literally, flop onto the queen-sized bed, crawling up until she hit pillows. Lovely, fluffy pillows that smelled like Fitz...  
  
  


Jemma woke up the next morning to the sound of her own name, again. She flung an arm over her eyes to block out the light -- clearly she’d failed to let down the curtains the night before. 

Fitz knocked on the door again. “Jemma? I’m coming in, okay?” 

She looked down the length of the bed and realized a second before his head appeared that she was slightly tangled in his sheets and wearing just his white undershirt and a pair of black boyshorts that didn’t totally cover her bum. 

Fitz’s eyes tracked slowly up the length of her bare legs and he visibly gulped. 

Indeed, what a sight she must make. He seemed both terrified to look at her and unable to look away. 

...So why waste it? 

“Morning,” Jemma yawned, reaching her arms above her head and curling her toes as she stretched her whole body.   

“Morning,” Fitz choked out, pulling the door towards him as if he were attempting to chop his own head off with it. “Sleep well?” 

“Mhm.” She nodded, snuggling into a pillow, and smiled at him. 

“It’s almost noon.” 

“Really?” 

“It stopped raining.” 

“I see that.” 

“I, er-- I’ve just made some breakfast, if you’d like some -- or if you’d prefer a lie-in, I can put it in the fridge for later--” 

“No, I’ll come right down,” she said, sitting up and scootching to the end of the bed. “Are you this gracious to all your visitors?” 

“Only the ones smarter than me.”

“Oh, Fitz.” She felt suddenly guilty for her blatant attempts to -- what, exactly? Seduce him? He was so innocent and sweet and had been an absolute gentleman and she kept throwing herself at him. “Let me just make myself decent and I’ll be down in a moment.” 

He nodded quickly and ducked out again, closing the door too quickly. Some of his confidence from the night before seemed to have evaporated in the sunlight of this new day, and if her behavior had played any part in that, she’d best try to fix it or risk ruining a valuable work relationship and potentially beautiful friendship. 

She put on a bra but decided to keep Fitz’s undershirt on. Something about its snugness made her feel safe. She hadn’t brought any casual trousers with her, either, so she pulled Fitz’s pajama bottoms over her knickers and decided that would have to do. 

She padded down to the kitchen in her bare feet, running a hand along the smooth wood of the banister and reveling in the intriguing contradiction that was Fitz’s humility and his lush lifestyle. 

He’d spread breakfast out across the island and she had to laugh. “Fitz, you didn’t!” 

“I may have gotten a bit too excited about making a real English breakfast,” he said anxiously, looking up at her as he dragged two stools over so they could sit and eat right there. “I didn’t have the right meat but--” 

“Are we having afternoon tea later?” she teased, bouncing over to him. 

“If you make those little sandwiches, then sure. But I’ve got to warn you I’d eat thirty of them on my own.” 

As he squeezed past her, she noticed -- and she may have been mistaken, or it may have been the product of wishful thinking -- the barest hint of a tent in the front of his trousers. _So much for sweet and innocent._ She couldn’t blame him, even if it was just a straightforward biological reaction: here she was, a nubile young woman wearing his clothes while he served her breakfast. A little... excitement was only to be expected. 

_Down, Jemma_ , she reminded herself. _Leave the poor boy alone._

He passed her a mug of tea, which she realized she hadn’t even asked for. She smiled at his back as he darted around the kitchen, grabbing silverware and napkins, before he slid onto the stool next to her. 

“Cheers, then.” 

They ate mostly in silence, occasionally elbowing each other violently (and very maturely), in one instance sending beans tumbling across the countertop while Jemma giggled at the dollop of sauce on Fitz’s nose. She leaned forward to wipe it off with her napkin and he closed his eyes as she did so. 

She found it absolutely impossible to believe that she’d known Fitz for ten years and never seen this side of him. She was suddenly very, very grateful she’d decided to go out into the storm. 

“So it stopped raining,” Fitz announced as he put the plates into the dishwasher. 

“You mentioned that, as I recall.” 

“But I have some bad news.” 

“Hmm.” Jemma leaned her chin into her hands. “What could that be? We... floated away overnight and are now in Switzerland?” 

“Close! Flights are still grounded for today.” 

“Oh!” Jemma crinkled her nose. She’d entirely forgotten about her missed flight. “I would’ve thought by now--” 

“The tarmac’s flooded, apparently, and it’s no Heathrow so they’ve not been quick to pump it away.” 

Jemma nodded, looking down at her hands laced together on the countertop. 

“You’re welcome to stay as long as you like,” Fitz said quickly, “I just know Fatima said you said something about having a -- a date--” 

“Oh!” Jemma looked up at him quickly. “That’s not -- that’s what I said, but that’s not strictly true -- I didn’t want anyone asking a lot of questions.” 

“Right, sorry, forget I asked.” He put his hands up and backed away. 

“No -- Fitz,” Jemma laughed, catching the edge of his shirt and pulling him back. “Not that _you_ shouldn’t ask questions. I’ve missed the appointment anyway, so--” 

“Can you reschedule?” He leaned his hip against the counter and crossed his arms over his chest, looking at her seriously. 

“I can, it’s just...” Jemma tilted her head and grimaced slightly. “It’s not a date, and it’s not an appointment. It’s my dad’s birthday, if he were still alive. I like to go to visit him in the cemetery, take some of his favorite tea in a thermos...” She shrugged. “It’s the first year I’m missing it, but I can go a little late, I’m sure he’ll understand.” 

“Jemma, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything--” 

“Fitz,” Jemma interrupted him firmly. “If I tell you, then I want you to know, alright? I’d think after our little adventure yesterday we earned ourselves a bit of trust and honesty, don’t you?” 

He grinned nervously at her. “Yeah?” 

“Yes.” She covered one of his hands in hers. “Really.” 

His thumb slipped between her fingers to rub her knuckle once, twice, before he stepped away. “Do you want to use my computer to check for flights tomorrow? List yourself for something?” 

“That reminds me -- did you have a look at my laptop? I can’t imagine it survived its little skinnydip but--” 

“I was going to work on that this afternoon. Let me show you.” He gestured for her to follow. 

A door under the staircase led to a spacious basement. Jemma was glad Fitz had waited until daylight to show her, for surely yesterday when they’d first arrived she would have been convinced he was taking her down there to snuff her out. In actuality, he’d converted the basement into an laboratory and workspace, equipped with technology Jemma recognized from her own job at Stark Industries but also a few dozen other machines and tools she’d never seen or couldn’t put a name too. 

“Wow, Fitz. Just -- wow,” she gushed, wanting to touch everything but knowing how other scientists -- and especially Fitz, if his reputation held true -- could be about their equipment. The double entendre in that thought didn’t escape her, and her eyes flicked down to Fitz’s trousers of their own accord before she felt blood rush to her cheeks and she quickly turned away again. “Do you do most of your work here?” 

“When I’m not traveling, yeah. Between conferences and work on-site that Coulson has me do, I’m not here as much as I like, but this is where I do my best thinking.” He spun a test tube on one of the lab benches then had to dive to catch it before it fell off. He set it down carefully and hurried on as if nothing had happened. “But, uh, this is as far as I got on your computer before you woke up.” 

It was in pieces. 

“I swear it’s better than it looks,” Fitz said nervously, glancing at her. “I’m bringing it back from the dead, so, drastic measures.” 

“I trust you,” Jemma insisted, squeezing her hands together to keep from reaching out to touch her laptop. “Do whatever’s necessary to save him, doctor.” 

“You’re so weird,” Fitz muttered as he brushed past her, but she caught the smile in his voice. 

Back upstairs, he brought out his own laptop and leaned over her shoulder while she looked up flights for the following day. She made more typos than she’d probably done in the entire previous year, though that most certainly had more to do with navigating his Mac (she was used to PCs) than the way his breath was stirring her hair. 

“That one looks reasonable,” she noted, pointing to a flight that left mid-morning. 

“You can probably call them and get some sort of discount or refund, considering the storm,” he suggested. 

She hummed in agreement and looked back at the flight. It was over eight hours long. 

“Do you visit your mum much?” she asked abruptly, voice unnaturally high. 

“Not as often as I like, no,” Fitz sighed, dropping his chin onto his fist. “With all the travel I do for work, I usually only get back once a year. Why?” 

“No reason.” In truth, she was looking at the length of the flight and thinking about how her life was back in England while Fitz’s was here. However much their paths crossed at events throughout the year, Jemma had a sickening feeling it wouldn’t be enough. 

“You alright?” he cut into her thoughts with a nudge to her shoulder. “You can come work in my lab if you’d like.” 

“Actually, do you mind if I bake some cookies? I’m a bit of a stress-baker and I could use that right now.” She didn’t tell him she was more stressed about the prospect of saying goodbye to him than anything else. “I promise cookies aren’t like meat -- you won’t be able to taste the stress with which they were created.” 

“No, you may not fill my house with delicious smells and my tummy with delicious baked goods,” he said sarcastically. “You think I’m mad, Jemma? Go right ahead. Root around for whatever you want, and let me know if you need anything.” He waved vaguely at the cabinets and headed for the basement. 

She chuckled to herself and set about exploring his pantry. He probably wouldn’t remember, but she’d watched him at a conference in Bogota two years before as an event staffer tried to help him set up and he’d thrown something of a hissy fit, insisting that they’d misplace everything or break something. The ease with which he’d thrown her into his kitchen, in which every piece of equipment was worth more than the laptop he was fixing in the lab below, was an unconscious testament to his trust of her, and it simultaneously warmed, terrified, and saddened her. 

A day ago he’d been a cute boy who also happened to be the only one in a room whose IQ neared hers. Today she was making cookies in his kitchen. 

After she’d popped the snickerdoodles in the oven, she darted upstairs to change into a pair of jeans and a slightly lacey dark blue top she’d brought for evenings after the conference’s main events. It felt wonderful to be wearing her own clothes again -- as much as she’d enjoyed Fitz’s, and she thought she’d enjoyed them a bit too much, it was good to have something _hers_ in this sea of someone else’s existence. 

Fitz appeared seconds after the first batch came out of the oven, and though he hovered about respectfully and didn’t make any attempts to snatch a cookie, she could see him practically salivating over them. With aching slowness, she scratched them off the pan with a spatula and onto a cooling rack. The last one she extended to him. 

“Oh god, Jemma,” he moaned, and she could have kicked him for how pornographic it sounded. “This is the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted.” Again with the pornography. Or was she stretching the limits with that one? _What is this man doing to me? Maybe it’s a good thing I’m leaving tomorrow..._

“Eat as many as you like -- you could do to gain a few pounds.” 

“I know, scrawny little engineer, blah blah blah,” Fitz sighed, crossing his arms defensively. 

“That’s not what I -- you’re skinny, _yes_ , Fitz, but not in a _bad_ way. Just eat the damn cookies.” She threw another one at him, which he batted away so that it hit the wall and fell to the floor, breaking into three pieces. 

“Five second rule!” Fitz yelped, diving for it. He emerged red-faced but triumphant and shoved the whole thing into his mouth. “Actually,” he mumbled around the cookie chunks, “as a biochemist, can you support or refute that rule?” 

“Essentially,” Jemma said eagerly, shucking off her oven mitts, “within even five seconds of contact, a food _can_ become contaminated with _E. coli_ or salmonella or the like, but most floor surfaces, if cleaned regularly, won’t be host to those contaminants anyway, so it’s not really a concern.” 

Fitz scrunched up his nose. “I understand, but I was more hoping you’d tell me it’s the best rule ever and we should all follow it.” 

“It’s the best rule ever and we should all follow it,” Jemma intoned. 

Fitz grinned toothily at her, bits of cookie suspended in his teeth. 

He disappeared again while she finished baking, then reemerged -- _like a vampire_ , she thought as he drifted in, looking if possible paler than a few hours before -- as she was washing down the cookie sheets. 

“Hey, Jemma, do you like _Doctor Who_?” 

“Is that a stupid question?” she shot back. 

“Good,” he beamed, bringing a DVD set out from behind his back. “Because I know you mentioned you were stressed and when I’m stressed I like to rewatch my favorite episodes.” 

“You don’t go in order?” she gaped at him. Because _that_ was the priority when the man for whom she had desperately fallen asked her to watch _Doctor Who_ with him. 

“Not always?” he said tentatively, looking terrified of her reaction. 

“Well, we will this time,” she replied firmly, taking the DVDs from him. 

“And I thought after, I have some freezer pizzas, if we don’t feel like taking that long of a break we can just heat those up and keep watching--” 

Jemma could have cried. He had just described her ideal date night. 

They started out side by side on Fitz’s couch (not the same couch from the night before, mind, as his house had at least three couches that Jemma had seen), their legs stretched in front of them onto the coffee table. But then Fitz started reciting all of Eleven’s lines under his breath and Jemma started nudging him to be quiet and eventually she couldn’t take it anymore and just shoved him down, except he grabbed her waist as he fell lengthwise on the couch and dragged her with him. 

Which was how they ended up laid out on the couch, Jemma half on-top of Fitz, both still studiously watching the show while her hand was splayed over his heart, one finger tracing his collarbone. Fitz’s hand rested gently on her lower back, his thumb tucked under the hem of her shirt, its warmth burning a brand into her skin. 

They stayed that way for upwards of an hour, and Jemma was just thinking it’d be so easy to tilt her head slightly and press her lips to Fitz’s jaw when her leg slipped of its own accord between his and suddenly Fitz was no longer underneath her but was rather scrambling away, tripping over the coffee table as he tried to put distance between them. 

“No!” he said wildly, throwing his hands up as if she would run at him. “No, Jemma, I _can’t_.” 

“Fitz, what--” Jemma gasped as if he’d slapped her. She grabbed the remote and paused the which was still chattering on in the background. 

“I’m the worst, and you can hate me if you want, Jemma -- I mean, please don’t, but I can’t -- I can’t keep acting like this is _normal_ , the way we just keep gravitating towards each other and the way you’ve slotted into my life --” 

“I never meant to impose!” Jemma protested, clambering off the couch. 

“I know, and you’ve not been, but--” 

“This is all my fault,” Jemma groaned, burying her face in her hands. “You’ve been so unbelievably generous and I’ve taken advantage of your hospitality -- I should just go--” 

“No, Jemma, that’s not--” Fitz huffed in frustration and put his hands on his lower back, eyes roaming the room as if the answer could be in one of the plants or windows or paintings. “I like having you here, that’s not the problem!” 

“Then what is it?” she cried. “You’re making no sense!” 

“I’ve known you for less than a day--” 

“Fitz, you’ve known me for years--” 

“No, but I’ve _known_ you known you, known you to speak to and laugh with and fall asleep in front of the fire with for a _day_ , and already I feel like you’re my best friend in the world!” 

“I feel the same way!” Jemma shouted. “So why are we fighting?!” 

“Because you’re more than that, Jemma,” Fitz whimpered, his eyes pleading with her to understand. “I’ve been mad about you for years and I told myself I could do this, _just_ be your friend, but now that you’re around me, it’s like all my atoms are vibrating--” He gestured wildly with his hands. “And I think I’ve talked more in the last day with you than to everyone else in the last year and--” 

“Fitz!” Jemma tried again desperately to cut him off. “Fitz, _I feel the same way_.” 

The silence that followed was so complete that the sound of Jemma’s phone vibrating in her back pocket was deafening. 

Jemma answered the call without breaking Fitz’s gaze. 

“Hello?” she said quietly, watching Fitz take a step towards her, his chest heaving. 

“Hey, Jemma, babe, I know that you’re grounded for another day,” Fatima chirped. “We all got stuck here as well, if you’d like to come for drinks?” 

“Sorry, Tima, but I’m sort of in the middle of something, I think I’ll have to pass,” Jemma replied with as much poise as she could manage as Fitz took another step forward. His eyes were asking her so many questions she so badly wanted to answer. 

“No worries! But I was also wondering if you’d wanna stay with Laurel and me at the hotel -- just to get out of Fitz’s hair, you know what they say about how that guy gets when he spends too much time with anyone, I can only imagine what a weird day you’ve had--” 

Fitz was finally close enough that she had to look up to keep meeting his eyes, which burned into hers. She tried to answer Fatima and had to swallow several times before she could choke out, “Actually, I think I’m staying here tonight.” 

Fatima said something else but Jemma hung up with vague promises to call the next morning. She fumbled trying to put the phone back into her pocket, then gave up and dropped it onto the coffee table next to her. 

Fitz’s eyes flickered over her face, returning again and again to her mouth. 

Jemma took a fractional step towards him. She reached out almost unconsciously and took the bottom of his shirt in both hand, tugging it upwards. He raised his arms and let her take it up as far as she could before he had to help. Once it was off, he threw it on the table with her phone. 

He finally closed the distance between them by grabbing her waist with one hand, though it was the most dizzying combination of the gentleness of his fingers’ grip and the firmness of his tug. She held his gaze, panting needfully as their breaths mingled and his fingers dug into her hip. 

He leaned forward and nipped her top lip. She shivered and tried to capture his mouth but he pulled back, teasing her, and she whined. He chuckled, the hot air of his laugh brushing her cheek. He dodged her next attempted kiss and pushed down the shoulder of her shirt, exposing her bra strap. For the exposed skin around the strap he had a series of soft, healing kisses. 

There would be time for that later, Jemma was sure, but she’d had quite enough of his games. So as he worked his way up her shoulder, she traced one nail down the center of his bare chest, lower, lower-- 

That did it, and Fitz brought his head back up with a growl and finally, _finally,_ **_finally_ ** kissed her in earnest. 

She stumbled backwards until her legs hit the couch and they both fell onto it, lips still locked. Fitz had one hand on her face and one in her hair, while Jemma was dividing her attention between his stubble and one of his belt loops, pulling his hips down against her. Though even she, queen of high-quality multi-tasking, was finding it nearly impossible to concentrate on anything except the way Fitz was thoroughly, excellently snogging her. 

Certainly wasn’t complaining about her leg being between his now, was he? she thought triumphantly. 

His hands slid over her ribs, pushing her shirt upwards, and she pulled back, tracking biting kisses up his cheek to his ear. “Upstairs?” she whispered. 

He had both of his arms around her waist and brought them both into a standing position within a second. “Didn’t realize you were so old-fashioned,” he murmured, kissing her neck as he pivoted them towards the stairs in little spins. 

She laughed and clutched his shoulders. “If you must know,” she murmured, “I found your bed quite comfortable and would rather like the experience of waking up in it with you next to me.” 

It took them another five minutes to make it upstairs, finding it quite necessary to stop at walls and doors and against the banister to properly appreciate each other and dispense of another item of clothing. 

“This is, without a doubt,” Fitz panted as they finally tumbled into his bedroom, “the greatest moment of my life.” 

“You are such a twelve-year-old boy,” Jemma groaned, though he had made impressively quick work of the clasp on her bra, so she couldn’t _really_ use that particular chastisement with him. 

“I hope that’s not what you say in a moment,” Fitz teased, though he actually looked terrified as Jemma flopped backwards onto the bed while he pushed his boxers down. 

It was a few minutes after that before they could proceed as Jemma was laughing so hard -- at his comment, not his... anatomy, she insisted. 

He finally shut her up with a kiss.  
  
  
  


Jemma didn’t fly back to England the next day. Or the next, or the next. 

In fact, she got permission from Stark Industries to work remotely for the three weeks until the expo in Tokyo, during which period she split her time between working in Fitz’s lab and wearing his shirts (and nothing else, this time). What amazed her more than anything was that when either of them had a seemingly uncrackable problem, they could consult with the other and solve it within minutes. The combination of their brains and expertise and workstyles felt as effortless as their conversations. 

They flew to Tokyo together and shared a hotel room, a development which brought no end of teasing from their colleagues. (Fatima was positively beside herself and kept sending them champagne.) From there they traveled to Bangkok for their next conference. 

They knew it couldn’t continue that way forever. Eventually Jemma had to go back to work, in person. She nearly missed her flight while they said goodbye, and it was the longest week of their lives before Fitz flew to England to surprise her. 

He didn’t sell his house, and she didn’t sell her apartment. Smitten as they were -- and confident as they were that this was something extraordinary -- they both knew that hastily intertwining two preexisting lives could make it more painful to separate later. 

Or at least, that was what they told themselves until one day, as simple as breathing, they decided to buy a new house together in Scotland -- to be near Fitz’s mum -- and start their own scientific contracting corporation. Coulson and Stark were bitter about letting their top scientists go, but they understood the impulse and were FitzSimmons Laboratories’ first customers. 

From there on in, the prospect of ever needing to separate their intertwined lives was unthinkable. 

Fitz’s favorite part of their new life was watching the sun rise from the kitchen of their cottage, but Jemma always maintained a fondness for dark and stormy nights.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be more like sensual and/or smutty but apparently I can't write these two as anything but adorable??? Sorry/you're welcome??? 
> 
> Find me on Tumblr! I'm grapehyasynth there as well.


End file.
